


Dancing in the dark

by Claireybo128



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-06-19 17:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claireybo128/pseuds/Claireybo128
Summary: Sherlock fell, Sherlock lost his superpowers, can John find them?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story follows canon till s03 e03 then John leaves Mary after the shooting. Mary disappeared after leaving a note explaining the baby wasn't his and he has been living in their flat alone and working at the surgery.
> 
> This is a work in progress, any feedback greatly appreciated!!

“Sherlock!!!!”

Johns chest felt like it was about to explode, he’d been running for about 10 minutes now, he’d lost sight of Sherlock but he knew he had run into a small collection of buildings in the distance.

They were in East London, Docklands area, somewhere near the airport; John was running across an open wasteland. The light was fading as the sense of panic was rising in the back of Johns mind. They were running after a group of Eastern European criminals which they barged in on trading political information with a double agent of Mycroft’s. The gang scarpered on discovery but Sherlock had given chase and that’s where they were now, running, god knows where, it could be straight into their set up, with weapons and who knows what…

As John’s mind began spiralling he heard Sherlock cry out.

“John”

John had reached the buildings now, frantically searching amongst them for a sign of where Sherlock had run, he noticed a door that hung from its hinges, clearly a victim of a hefty boot. There was little light as he ran in straight up some stairs, the building had been deserted for sometime, dust flew up as he pulled himself up the stairs and rotten wood groaned under his feet.

“Sherlock??”

No answer. “Sherlock?” John stopped still so he could listen, facing a wall of dead silence and complete dark. He took a step forward but the floor didn’t meet his foot, which kept on moving, downwards, taking the rest of him with it. John’s stomach dropped and he flung his arms out, grabbing what ever it was he found. A pole steadied him as he waited for his heart rate to slow, there appeared to be a hole in the floor of this corridor, he shouted Sherlock’s name again but still no response.

John turned to head back down the stairs, a might more carefully than he had flown up them, his mind had pieced together what he thought might have happened. As he entered a door to the left of the staircase, the final remaining daylight gave a shaft of light through a boarded up window illuminating a crumpled heap of coat that confirmed his suspicion. “Sherlock” he whispered.

John the doctor kicked in, he knew what to do. Moving towards Sherlock, he used what little light there was to determine how his friend had landed. Sherlock’s long body was crumpled into a ball, if you hadn’t know he had fell he could be mistaken for a baby that falls asleep on his front with his legs curled up underneath him. His body from the waist down piled up on top of itself, folded up like an old fashioned deck chair, arms flailing out to the side. John dare not move him into the recovery position, as there wasn’t enough light to determine just how injured he was, but he was breathing.

It was dark when the ambulance arrived, no sign of the gang member’s, they must have continued their escape. John waited with Sherlock in the dark till he heard the sirens and went out to alert them to where they were. As they arrived John went into shut down, it was too similar to the scene on the floor outside Bart’s. To see Sherlock still, he knew he wasn’t dead this time but he so wished he would come round so the heaviness in the pit of his stomach would subside.

John allowed the paramedics to shepherd him into the back of the ambulance next to Sherlock on the stretcher, they had assessed he hadn’t broken anything, god knows how, but he was still unconscious. John watched the medics with a sense of detachment as they buzzed around Sherlock and the ambulance sped off. He knew what they were doing but it seemed so odd to see them doing it to Sherlock.

When they arrived at the hospital they were greeted by Lestrade, approaching John with a concerned expression. “John” said Lestrade, “Huh” replied John, it was good to see a familiar face but he was concentrating on where Sherlock was being wheeled, he didn’t slow down. “John, what were you two doing? John felt his concentration slipping, his mind started to work out what to say. “What, uh, Sherlock, he… Mycroft” his words tumbled out. “All right, all right calm down John” John noticed Sherlock go around a corner. “I have to…I need…” Involuntarily, he turned and followed the direction Sherlock had gone, he heard Lestrade shouting after him but his feet moved him away.

Down the corridor, his pace quickened, left then right turns, to the A&E assessment rooms. On arriving at the admissions desk he saw another familiar face “Molly?” his brow furrowed in confusion. “One of the ambulance team recognised Sherlock” she replied quickly. “John, he’ll be ok, they are assessing him now.” He looked into her eyes but the reassurance didn’t match the strain in them. He fixed her gaze “Where is he?” Molly took a deep breath “John just wait, you know how this works, you can’t be in there, you know you can’t”. John felt pressure building up inside him, the events of the last hour caught up with him in that moment and he felt his legs go from underneath him.


	2. Chapter 2

John felt fuzzy, he’d been trying to sleep in a visitor’s chair for about an hour, the wood from the armrests was digging into his side and he had a vicious burn down the left side of his neck where he was leaning over, cheek resting on his knuckles on his right hand.

The luminous lights in Sherlock’s hospital room meant that is was still bright even when John closed his eyes, John was dog tired. He had been sat by Sherlock for about ten hours now. He had vowed he wouldn’t sleep. The doctors had said there was no apparent damage to Sherlock from the assessments they performed but that they would need him to wake up to confirm that. A blow to the front of the head was still a serious injury.

Sherlock lay on his back, propped up in the hospital bed, for all accounts sleeping peacefully. A cotton pad across his forehead secured with a thick bandage wound around the back of his head. John thought about the army hospital, many men laid around with bandages here and there, none of them looked like Sherlock though. The fluorescent lights washed even the little colour he had out of his complexion. He looked transparent, like a ghost. 

As John gave up trying to sleep and re-adjusted himself in his chair he noticed you could actually see tiny blue veins all over Sherlock’s chest, like a map they joined into each other like roads. As he stared his eyes blurred in and out of focus. John allowed his gaze to travel up Sherlock’s chest, it was a rare sight a still Sherlock and he became intrigued. His chest was smooth, and although Sherlock was slight, he was defined, sinewy muscle laid over delicate bone. 

John leaned over to look closer, his tiredness numbing the sensation that this was possibly an invasion of Sherlock’s personal space. As he watched Sherlock’s pulse thrum at his neck he noticed Sherlock’s eyelid flicker. “Sherlock?” John watched intently, scared to move in case he scared it away. “Sherlock” John gently encouraged him and as he said his name Sherlock’s eyes moved underneath the still closed lids and he began to draw a breath through his nostrils. Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together as John imagined the pain in his head filtering through.

“Sherlock, take it easy, you are in a hospital” John kept his voice low and calm so as not to startle Sherlock. “Sherlock” John coaxed, willing him into consciousness. Sherlock finally opened his eyes and John saw the blue iris’s move slowly, then quicker darting from side to side, Sherlock began to try to sit up, panic stricken across his face, then a cough caught in his throat, John realised his throat must be dry and hurriedly poured a cup of water and brought it to his mouth. 

When Sherlock finally stopped coughing his head was down, he raised it slowly, his eyes closed. John said softly “Sherlock, are you okay?” Sherlock’s eyes opened, facing toward John but with no recognition and his face set in a blank expression. “John” he said hoarsely “I can’t see.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had been in hospital for three days, now he was being discharged but there was little joy to be had. A flurry of tests and long periods of waiting had given no answers as to why Sherlock couldn’t see. John knew that a blow to the head could cause swelling of the brain, resulting in blindness; he had seen it in Afghanistan. He also knew the effects can vary in severity and length, these are the sterile sentences he had delivered to soldiers relatives himself, not ever really giving thought to the anguish that ambiguity also gave.

Physically Sherlock looked much better. The bandage round his head had been replaced with a large plaster and he had more colour in his cheeks, well, as much as he ever did, thought John, it was his eyes that made John sad. Sherlock’s eyes usually so busy, darting about, noticing everything, were lifeless. There was usually a fire in them, alluding to the monstrous intelligence in the brain behind but the fire was gone, replaced by a still, sea blue tranquillity of nothing. 

Sherlock had taken the news that, well there was no news regarding his sight, with a stoic nod. John supposed his own rudimentary knowledge of the brain included information about this kind of thing. John had tried to be positive “No news is good news I suppose?” he had said after the doctor left Sherlock’s room. “No news is nothing John” Sherlock had replied. He exhaled through his nostrils, his agitation palpable. “Even so, it’s just a case of waiting Sherlock, I’ll be around to help…” Sherlock rolled his eyes, he could still do that. “Ugh, pity” he spat, “I’ll not …..” John stopped him in his tracks “Yes, you will Sherlock, you ARE going to need help. However long this lasts you are going to need some help adjusting to this, taking things easy. I can take some time off work; I’ll come and stay at Baker Street.” Sherlock’s head dropped “I suppose you’re right” he said sulkily. “Sherlock” John said sternly, and then he stopped. This wasn’t like him, there was no fight in him. “I know this is hard” John went on a little more softly “I’m just asking you not to make this more difficult than it has to be. I don’t mind helping, when you get home in more familiar surroundings you might feel better, you’ll see.” John immediately regretted the end of his sentence and his face would have given him away if Sherlock could have seen it. 

John gathered together the leaflets the discharge nurse had given them, Sherlock had barely been listening it seemed when she was there. John caught her outside and asked her advice on the best way to support Sherlock, she said many people go through a range of stages when dealing with sight loss, denial, grief and anger being common. However this was Sherlock, this was a different breed altogether. John didn’t mention this to her, and thanked her for the advice.

When he went back in Sherlock was stood in his coat, waiting by the bed “Ah, finished talking about me then, come on John we haven’t got all day” and he put his hand out expectantly. John took a deep breath; this was definitely going to be a challenge.


	4. Chapter 4

“There we go then!” As Mrs Hudson’s poured out the tea her voice was far too high pitched. “Oh, I’ve got some biscuits downstairs, I’ll go and fetch them” and she hurried out the room. “She might not make it back upstairs,” Sherlock remarked from his chair, his voice low, without expression. John’s lack of reply signalled confusion so Sherlock went on “with that level of pitch she’ll be short of air” he said flatly. “She’s just worried about you Sherlock” “I know, that’s the problem, you all reek of it.” He added a flick of his hand to illustrate his point. John pursed his lips and let that one go. 

“Dinner?” “What?”  
“Dinner, what shall we have? Sherlock didn’t answer. “Beans then? I’ll go when Mrs Hudson gets back. Would you like me to run you a bath?” Sherlock stood up and headed for the kitchen. His leg caught the edge of Johns chair and he stumbled but did not fall. “Sherlock.” He put his arm out to feel for the wall and began to make his way along the kitchen side. John started to follow him but thought better of it, he hadn’t found the right time to talk properly to Sherlock about how he was feeling in all this. Sherlock made it to his bedroom, entered and the door closed slowly behind him. John took this as a clear signal that he wished to be left alone. 

“Biscuits!!” a sonic level Mrs Hudson appeared, when she scanned the room and found no Sherlock she looked towards John with concern. John nodded his head toward his room. She studied his face for a moment “Oh,” she paused, he must have looked strung out. “We’ll get him right John” Mrs Hudson placed her hand on Johns forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. He looked into her eyes and found some comfort there. 

The thing was he had had a lot of time to consider what might be going on in Sherlock’s head, and without having any input from Sherlock, Johns mind was filling in the blanks. He had been in a similar situation himself, when he came back wounded from Afghanistan. His life was the army; he had immersed himself in it so much he ate, breathed and slept its routines and systems. His mind was finely attuned to the tasks at hand, he didn’t have to think about anything outside of the army, he had deep trust in his unit and close companionships with his fellow soldiers. When he was in hospital he didn’t really consider what it would be like to be outside of that, he expected that the doctors were going to tell him he could be reinstated after his recovery, the recovery that never came. 

As he entered a civilian life, in that small, plain, dark flat the strong structure of routine and purpose had melted away. His mind had numbed, inside a voice told him his purpose no longer existed, he had no use and adrenaline became a long distant memory replaced with a black space, a never-ending stillness. The most frightening part was that John knew where that had taken him, to the very edge of life.

Sherlock’s situation was so similar; except John feared with Sherlock it would be infinitely worse. Sherlock hadn’t only lost the ability to do his job, he had lost the sense that was arguably his greatest strength, his powers of observation. This aspect of Sherlock was so inextricably linked to who he was and what he did, John could only think that Sherlock would be as a bird without wings. 

What would his mind do to itself without the ability to observe and deduce that which others could not? John thought “We’ve seen what he’s like when he doesn’t have a case, how will he cope with the knowledge there might never be another?” For everything that had gone on, Sherlock dying, Sherlock not being dead, John marrying Mary, Mary shooting Sherlock, there were issues between them that had made their relationship strained but John still knew that without Sherlock he might never have made it out of his small, plain, dark flat and back into the real world. He felt a very strong sense of duty that he owed it to Sherlock to return the favour.


	5. Chapter 5

“Molly’s coming to see us.” John chirped to Sherlock. Sherlock was sat, well slumped, in his chair with his eyes shut. John didn’t know whether he was asleep or simply being ignorant, he had taken to doing this a lot lately, he could sit completely still for hours, eyes gently closed, John thought perhaps if he sat with his eyes closed he could pretend it was his choice that he couldn’t see anything. It was early days yet, John had tried a couple of times asking if he wanted to go out but Sherlock hadn’t replied. 

“Sherlock, I said Molly’s coming” John persisted, Sherlock still didn’t reply but he turned his head away from John. Exasperated John gave a sigh “Sherlock will you please stop ignoring me?” Sherlock sat up “Ok John, yes Molly is coming to visit, how shall we prepare, I’ll put my best suit on shall I?” “Well you can drop the sarcasm but yes, that would be preferable to your pyjamas” Sherlock smirked “I’m not getting dressed John.” He hadn’t been dressed since he got home from the hospital. It took him three days to come out of his room. “You are going to have to at some point, let me help you Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s head dropped, John watched him closely, he seemed to be holding his breath, then he looked up, eyes open this time, looking towards John but with no recognition on his face. The anxious knot in Johns stomach tightened, he’d been feeling this way for a couple of days now, he knew Sherlock needed to speak but he was afraid about what he might say. It was a feeling like waiting for your turn at the dentist, dreading your name being called. “I don’t know John” Sherlock said finally. John was taken aback; the tone he had used made it sound like a question. “What don’t you know Sherlock?” He looked away “What to do John, I don’t know.” He was speaking but it didn’t feel like he was speaking to John, he sounded a million miles away.

John was trying to think of something constructive to say but his mind had gone blank, a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Hello, its Molly” said Molly, peeking her head through the door. Sherlock’s head snapped round to face where Molly’s voice came from.  
“Molly Hooper” there was genuine warmth in his voice that surprised John.  
“I brought grapes, ah, I don’t know why?”  
Molly shuffled into the room and placed the grapes on Johns side table. She glanced at John and shook her hand in an up or down motion, mouthing how is he at the same time.  
“I’m fine Molly” said Sherlock, “hearing is spot on” he said staring towards the window.  
Molly’s face fell and she drained of colour.  
“Please sit down Molly” Sherlock gestured her to sit in Johns chair; John allowed himself a little smile.  
“Tea Molly?” 

John busied himself in the kitchen boiling the kettle, he kept an eye on how it was going, he had asked Molly to come, she had popped in a couple of times while Sherlock was in hospital and even though she had a terrible habit of saying the wrong thing sometimes, John had to admit he was struggling, he didn’t know how to help Sherlock, he wanted to see how someone else did. He carried the tea back through on a tray.

“Of course in that case, the patient never recovered fully…” Molly’s voice petered out as John walked in.  
“Here we go” John interrupted before Sherlock could reply. Molly stared at the floor.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

“I’ll pop by next week then?”  
“Yes, and thank you Molly, it’s been nice to see a different face.”  
“Don’t worry John, I don’t mind helping. If you need a break anytime just let me know.”  
John smiled at Molly and she turned to go down the stairs. That hadn’t gone too badly, Sherlock had behaved himself, even seemed to brighten up a bit from earlier. John breathed in brusquely through his nose and went back into the flat. Any sense of relief he felt though was short lived. As he entered the living room Sherlock was slumped back in his chair again, eyes closed and fingers pressed against his temples. Anger pricked the top of John’s chest, but he went about tidying the tea up.

“Maybe we could go out to see Molly sometime?” After a pause John added “Or Mycroft?” Sherlock remained still.  
“Sherlock?’ John persisted, taking the tea tray through he placed it down on the side a little more heftily than he intended, the porcelain clattering together. As he turned to face Sherlock, he was still there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily. 

John started towards Sherlock; in front of him in three strides he placed his hands on the arms of his chair. Sherlock, sensing the sudden proximity, opened his eyes.  
“Can you ignore me if I’m here?” John said with a low voice, holding back the volume but not the frustration. He knew Sherlock couldn’t see him but he would be able to hear his breath he was so close. John swallowed, “Talk to me”  
“There’s nothing to talk about John. Nothing at all”  
“Stop this Sherlock” John hesitated, still not wanting to push Sherlock, and then found his resolve.  
“Sherlock, I need you to talk to me, I can’t stand this. I can’t pretend to know what you are feeling, I can’t imagine what’s going on in your head but I can’t watch you shut down like this; it’s too hard.  
John backed away and dropped onto his chair behind him, he rubbed his face and leaned back  
“There’s nothing to talk about” Sherlock said quietly “Because there’s nothing John.”  
John stopped rubbing his face and slowly slid his hands down his face and peered at Sherlock. “Go on”


End file.
